


stitches

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Winter, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 14:00:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5336675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>jean learns he’s too stubborn to let mikasa freeze on her own accord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stitches

He has gentle hands.

It’s something his mother notices early. Jean’s fingers are lengthy, nimble, sure of themselves in the ways they don’t shake easing thread through a needle. She teaches him how to stitch, how to mend, how to make his own clothing, because hands that are so sure will hold swords, knives, and guns before she blinks. “This is useful,” she tell him, followed by a taut yank of his ear when Jean grumbles through his teeth. “This is useful, and one day you’ll thank me for it.”

He thanks her for it his first winter in the Survey Corps.

Silently, of course. Jean tugs his hood over the tips of his ears and curls forward, arms twined around his legs. His first winter in the Survey Corps, he learns that there are no replacements for boots with holes, and winter capes with tears; scarves are rare and few in form, save for the red one beside him. So he buys a needle and thread in the last populated town they pass, (yarn when he can manage to splurge), and mends with the same hands that kill: Sasha’s boot lining, Connie’s pants, Eren’s tunic. No one can give him shit for it when they’re freezing out in the cold.

Mikasa handles near frostbite like a pro.

She cups her hands over her mouth, defrosting her skin with every puff of air that leaks through her fingers. Her nose is running and raw, cheeks bright red, and if it wasn’t for hard set, stubborn line of her chin, he would’ve told her to go warm up by the fire ages ago.

“Historia needed them,” is what Mikasa says–and all she says–when she sits beside him for night watch, hands tucked in her cloak.

Two hours later, her lower lip starts to wobble.

“Take them,” Jean exclaims, pulling his fingers out of his own gloves. His hands are bigger than hers, but he figures that doesn’t matter much when they’re already warm. Mikasa tilts her head and stares, fists curled like she might strike; when she doesn’t respond, he sighs and sets them in her lap. “Mikasa you can’t help much if your fingers fall off.”

Her eyes narrow, but he’s already pressed his back against the tree trunk, facing outwards. 

“You can even keep them if you want.” He catches glimpses of her from the corner of his eye, watching as she smoothes her hand over the material and slides her fingers inside. “Red goes with green, I guess.”


End file.
